The Past is Alive
by RoninOfHell
Summary: Short snippets from events before Agents of Metal Part 1, the way they might have unfolded.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: So much AoM fanfiction already - this is in a way inspired by omen mortis' AU fic, but has a different idea, to focus on some events / snippets long before Agents of Metal Part 1, as I imagined them, which could of course be totally wrong, but the novels kind of leave a lot to the imagination! The story name comes from the lyrics in Mayhem's song "Pagan Fears." Also, the chapters proceed in chronological order! It starts out quite light but will get darker as time progresses.  
_

...

In addition to The X-Files, La Femme Nikita was one of her favorite shows. It was just on the edge of what she could stomach. The character of Madeline was somehow particularly nasty, she reminded just a little of Mom, though she had been absent for years. During the scenes when Madeline was hurting someone for information, Jo often left the living room or simply looked away.

At times Russ would watch the shows with her. But not always. Jo knew it was neglect, in a way – other girls of her age were surely not allowed to watch this kind of stuff at all. But the door had been left open and it was too late to try to shut it now. Jo craved this above-her-age information now, and tried to get her hands on it as much as possible, also by reading.

Russ had made it clear that the shows were just acting, that none of it was real, but still it left Jo wondering how much the real world was like them.

One thing in particular...

"Does that actually happen, being trained against your will?" she asked Russ.

"I know you're smart, so I'm not going to lie to you. There's been something like that. Even by the government. Those three-letter guys. But don't worry, all those programs are shut down by now."

Jo nodded in response. That was what he liked about Dad, that he never talked down to her or tried to sweeten the truth just because she was young. Even if on other days he was basically in some another world after having a drink too much, or just inside the studio building all day.

"But what about we get you something else to think about?" Russ suggested immediately after.

Jo tried to guess what. "You're going to teach me how to play? How to record?"

The studio and the instruments were still for the most part off-limits to her; it was very much an adult's world so far, and Russ was very strict when she was in there, so that she wouldn't tip over anything or cause other damage. So would she now gain access to that world? That would be something.

"Let's keep that in mind too. But I was thinking of something else that sure as hell won't be legal for you for many, many years yet. But if you don't tell anyone I taught you, it's OK."

Russ paused for effect.

"Would you like to learn to drive? A real old school car?"


	2. Chapter 2

_You will never see it coming  
The fist of revenge turns off your light -  
the fist in the night!  
Fist!  
Of revenge!  
Made of steel!_

It was fast as hell. Loud as hell. And as far as Ian could tell, though he didn't have earlier experiences to compare to, he was drunk as hell too.

The band was called Skull Revenger, playing on a small stage set up in front of the mall, and Ian honestly couldn't comprehend how fast the guitarists were able to play. It was much faster than Metallica or even Slayer. The vocalist was practically barking out the lyrics like a dog, and the guitarists helped him in the chorus, barking just as roughly, but a bit lower. Ian could not help but to be drawn into the front, into the circle pit, where several other kids were running around and shoving each other.

There was this aggression inside him that he couldn't really explain, and this was like its musical equivalent. And yet he had never heard of the band before, or seen them on the internet (though truth be told, the connection at home was shit, just a modem, and he wasn't even allowed online that often). So likely, they had to be local, and fairly unknown.

A bit of a rougher push from a kid taller and heavier than him, and Ian found himself down on the asphalt in front of the stage. His jeans had been dirtied and scratched, but otherwise there was not much damage. Though he began to feel ill now. The beer was definitely on its way up. He scrambled onto his feet even before anyone gave him a hand, exited the pit and the crowd, and just managed to get into hiding, into the bushes to the left of the stage.

Then he bent down and let go, disgorging his stomach contents with extreme force. It hurt much more than the unexpected contact with the ground ever did.

...

On his way home, he had to sneak inside a gas station restroom to clean himself up, to make sure there wasn't any puke left on him. Thankfully the attendant didn't even notice. The world was still spinning, and Ian was a hundred percent sure his parents would suspect something. Though, they never seemed to go truly rough on him no matter what trouble he ended up in, like the other kids' parents. What was wrong with them?

...

When the morning sun made its unwelcome appearance through the curtains, the world (including the bedroom) still spun, and Ian still felt his head was going to explode any second.

And he made a decision. Even at his age, he understood that the world operated like a giant wheel, always turning and eventually coming back to the same position. Knowledge had to be passed to the younger generations. He wanted to one day be in the same position as Skull Revenger, to play speed metal (or thrash, or death) at near lightspeed, and inspire the kids before him to headbang and pit and drink and fight like there was no tomorrow.

He descended the stairs unsteadily.

The first encounter was his father, David (or Dave as he liked to be called). He was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper.

"Had a fun evening?" he asked.

Ian's voice was just a raven croak from the dehydration. "Guess I had..."

He expected some remark from Dad, due the abnormal voice if nothing else, but none came. Fine. Ian then collected his courage just for a moment. Getting drunk and hung over was not exactly the best position to make requests in.

"Hey. Listen. I'd want to start playing guitar. Electric. To be like the band I saw."

David's eyes lit up.

"You're setting goals for yourself. That's good. But you have to grow your hair first. You know, I used to have a mullet back in the day..."

This was a most odd condition. To be honest Ian could not imagine Dad with long hair, with his glasses and all. In fact if he thought of it too much they were (if not for the lack of discipline) like some odd Aryan model family, and Ian shuddered at the thought a bit. Carol, his mother, had fair hair too.

Ian caught Dad suddenly staring off into the distance, like he was getting emotional for no reason. Growing a mullet and starting with guitar wasn't reason enough. That was odd too. What was he not telling? In TV shows people would get emotional when someone was running on limited time or there was some other horrible secret.

Well. Maybe there was no reason to think to those lengths, that there was some horrible secret in their family too, but to just accept the condition. And be glad that he had been let off the hook that easily.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Definitely inspired by Angst, Agony & Extacy... Thanks, omen mortis!_

 _..._

It had been two years already since she had started playing. Time flew, for sure.

Now Jo and her black Les Paul Studio were inseparable, but it had not started that way. In the beginning it had felt much like a chore, like she was persisting only to please Russ.

The way it had turned around, when playing had actually become a passion, had certainly stuck in Jo's mind. It was possibly all thanks to a single song, or even a single phrase within it. Metallica's "Ride the Lightning."

As Jo's understanding of metal had expanded, she knew that writing a song about execution by electric chair was nothing special, but there was an interesting twist in the lyrics. The guy in the lyrics appeared to be in fact guilty – but he also said "there is someone else controlling me." That was straight into The X-Files territory again, and it hooked Jo's imagination.

By luck the song had also a rather long and impressive solo part, but just at the right level of difficulty, so that she could start deciphering the licks one by one and building her dexterity, until she could nail all of it.

At the end of it, she was extremely proud, and she could tell Russ was too.

After Metallica, the next steps were quite naturally Megadeth, and Slayer... Slayer in particular for building up right hand speed. They had deranged lyrics too, often dealing with serial killers.

She kept searching for more, until she came upon something she could not have believed to exist. Agent Steel. Where to even start? The original singer was a total freak, totally obsessed with UFOs, writing lyrics about them and Mayan human sacrifices and then disappearing for years, leaving the rest of the band high and dry. And the replacement they found was just as obsessed with other things, like the Illuminati, and shapeshifting Reptilians.

It was a bit scary. How much she could believe in those things, before becoming insane herself? It was like there was an invisible threshold she should not cross, and she hadn't quite made up her mind yet. Maybe she could just conclude, that the subject matter was extremely fascinating.

But if there was truth to it, then she thought she needed to be ready, to be equipped to defend herself. By now she had of course seen The Matrix, and if the conspiracies were real, then she would want to be able to kick ass like Trinity. Or Nikita. This thought she certainly knew to keep to herself only.

Even so, she had certainly said enough to ensure that everyone at school knew her as a freak. Playing guitar but not in a band (so far), and almost everything she said twisting back to some conspiracy or government transgression.

That suit her just fine, though it left her with few friends. Most of the drama the "popular" kids were embroiled in was just patently stupid. Let them do that. She would not care, but do her own thing.

...

Ian had gotten his wish finally. To have a cheap Stratocaster clone with a humbucker pickup so the sound would be thicker and suitable for distortion. But he also knew, after roughly one year of practice, that getting to Skull Revenger level was going to be no easy task. Maybe he just lacked the necessary coordination.

Still, he would keep trying.

One of his mates, Chuck, also played guitar. He was at a much more advanced level already, playing Children of Bodom for instance, a Finnish band, which had gotten known even across the ocean. Ian had tried, but their songs (not to even speak of the solos) were much too complex. At least for now.

However, he had found something else. CoB had just acquired a new guitarist, and his previous band had something of a cult status - one of the first real thrash bands in their country. Most of their songs were complex too, but there was one song which spoke to him in an eerie way. And it was also easy enough that Ian had learned all the riffs.

The song was called "Small Tales" from the band's final actual album.

 _A boy fourteen, he loves to fight, feels the jungle beat  
Friday night, out on the street, wants to use his knife_

Ian thought that it could be about him. About the unexplained bouts of aggression that he would get at times. So far he had never fought with weapons, just with his fists, and he hoped it would stay that way.

Fuck. If he kept playing, maybe he could channel his aggression that way. Because otherwise he feared he might one day end up in prison.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: One more light-in-tone Jo chapter still. Then the darker stuff starts, promised!_

...

In a way, the self-defense camp was everything Jo could have asked for. To for example get to fire an actual MP5 submachine gun in bursts, or even at full auto. The gun did not feel overly bulky; like the Les Paul Studio she could have considered it a natural extension of her body.

But the mental side was another thing ... Jo found it somehow depressive. If you thought that the world was out to get you, and you had to be prepared all the time, it could also become an obsession in its own right. Jo devised a drinking game, take a drink every time someone at the camp would mention "castle doctrine" or even the Second Amendment itself. You'd end up pretty much wasted soon. Maybe she would just need to find her own way around it. Because she still wanted to be able to fight back. Just not become like the guys in here.

The MP5 clicked empty on its last magazine, and Jo needed to hand over the weapon back to the instructor, so the next in line would get their turn.

As she removed the ear protectors, she heard a voice from behind her.

"Uh... I'm not going to fire that thing. I just came to watch. But you seemed to be handling it like a pro."

The shaky voice belonged to a guy in somewhat decrepit clothes, and his eyes looked weird. Bloodshot and a little glassy. Was he using something? In that case, he was certainly making a good decision.

"I'm Devin. Everyone just calls me Dee."

"Jo."

"Short is best," Devin replied a bit absurdly. And they walked away from the automatic weapons range, seemingly to the same direction. Though Jo did not know where exactly they would be headed.

"Have you thought ... the government is probably keeping tabs on everyone here. They allow this camp to happen, because it's so insignificant. No real risk to them. Or maybe they don't even care at all. But almost everyone here's so self-important, and that's what really gets to me."

"On that last part, agreed in full," Jo said.

This guy Devin seemed interesting. A bit messed up too. Maybe not that far from her.

There was a tent ahead of them, next to it a sign "Exotic martial arts."

"Hey. That sounds worth checking out," Devin said, and Jo did not protest.

The inside of the tent was completely dark, except for the little light getting in from the entrance flap. There seemed to be some people around, but no organized program going on just now.

Until a light was switched on, revealing a stocky, bearded instructor. Or Jo assumed it had to be an instructor.

"Welcome to the next class. I'm Robert Hamm, just call me Rob, the only qualified Kas-Pin instructor in this country. Kas-Pin is an ancient art of fighting from Scandinavia, passed over thirty generations and also influenced by Oriental martial arts. It's an extensive system, requiring years to master, and I can only give a short taste of it here today. One tenet of it is fighting in the dark, and that's what we're going to concentrate on. It would be best if you form pairs."

"Dee? Are you there? Are we a pair?"

There was no response.

Until a few seconds later, Devin poked her in the back with his finger. Jo jumped and let out a short, high-pitched scream.

"Fuck! That's not funny at all!"

Devin whispered back in response, apparently to not be heard by the instructor.

"Fighting in the dark, isn't it that? And I actually know about this ... read about it on the net. There are four themes, weird as fuck. Nerves. Light touch. Touch of an angel. Invisible hand. And it's all about using weapons. Like a sickle."

That list made partial sense. Pressure on nerve centers was also used in other martial arts. And as for the weapons...

"So, farm tools? Sounds kind of practical," Jo replied.

...

Finally the camp was over. The Kas-Pin class had been just confusing in the end; at the highest level the discipline supposedly promised the ability to affect the opponent just by thought. But Jo and Devin had exchanged email addresses to keep in touch. Somehow Jo thought that she might have made a friend for life. She also thought almost like she had a responsibility now, to keep checking that Devin would stay in control. As true enough, he was using stuff. Recreationally, of course.

Neither of them had made a move of being more than friends, and that was very likely the wise choice to make in this case.

But now Jo had a feeling that if she wanted to be able to kick ass properly, she would have to dedicate untold hours to it. To possibly make a choice between that and music. She could not make the choice yet. So maybe she would enroll to some martial arts classes at her hometown that made more sense, and keep playing like hell. By now she was working through Yngwie Malmsteen's material; the challenge was ramping up.


	5. Chapter 5

"Ian, stop for fuck's sake! This is not fucking Double Dragon! After this Louise won't want anything to do with either of us!"

Things had turned real bad real fast. The worst was that it was Chuck, his friend, that Ian was now pinning to the ground at the school's parking lot. Louise stood there, in her pretty dress, among the rest of the gathered crowd, and from the short glimpse Ian got of her she was completely horrified at what was happening. They had both been trying to get her attention, and a fight had ensued. And now -

Now Ian felt something deeply disturbing and animalistic taking over him, and it was too late to stop. The whole last week aggression and rage had been boiling inside him, ready to blow everything apart. If not this, it could have been anything else.

At this point it wasn't about the girl at all. But finishing things.

Ian's voice was a vicious snarl he barely recognized. "I don't want to stop. Fight me for real!"

In response Chuck managed to break loose and hit Ian in the jaw. Momentarily stunned, Ian fell from top of him to the ground. But right after he felt good. Dangerously good. Like the blow had just energized him, primed him to do what needed to be done.

He leaped back at Chuck. And now Ian had the edge. Something at the back of his head reminded that his friend would hold back, would not fight to the last like him, but then – Chuck had made his choice, and would suffer for it. Possibly even -

Ian's next punch connected to Chuck's nose, and blood was gushing on his face. This was the sign for Ian that he was doing exactly the right thing, and needed to continue.

Until the end.

Ian threw one more punch, and Chuck hit his head against the concrete now, becoming motionless.

But in the next instant Ian felt hands grabbing him, taking him off Chuck before he could finish properly. The school security had arrived. Damn! He considered trying to fight them too -

But he was helpless now. The rage boiled in his head only uselessly, as he was hauled on his feet, away from the scene.

"Son! What the hell was that? Were you trying to kill him?" the guard on his right side yelled at him, and Ian was at a complete loss for words.

...

Sitting on the bed of the cell, Ian knew what would happen. He would go before the juvenile court judge, and due to the severity of his assault, he was likely to do time. The only good part was that Chuck had not died, though he was still in the hospital. There was the possibility of lasting damage. In any case he would certainly want to have nothing to do with Ian any more.

Why? Why had it boiled over to this degree? Ian had always managed to keep himself somewhat in control before. Was it just because of growing older? Would he become even worse then?

Fuck. He was very scared of himself just now. And not just scared, but disgusted. It was like through a haze he remembered it at all, that he had been playing guitar, and even together with Chuck. It felt very much a tainted memory now.

An officer appeared at the cell door.

"You have a visitor!"

Ian was led through the corridors to the visitation room. It was Mom. And Ian could tell she had been crying. Her normally straight and tidy long hair was unkempt now. Ian had obviously disappointed her badly.

Ian took a seat on the opposite side of the table. But what Carol would say then, he could not have expected.

"Ian. It wasn't in your control. Don't blame yourself. Just try to – save your strength."

"Mom. You're not making any sense. What wasn't? And save my strength for what? For doing time?"

"You'll understand. And ... sorry."

Ian certainly did not think he would. "It's me who should be sorry!"

Carol made to stand up and leave, cutting the visit very short, and right now that twisted Ian's heart even worse. She had nothing more to say...?

Well, to tell the truth, neither had he.

...

Finally it was the time for Ian's hearing. Ian knew of Judge Daniels by name, he was supposed to be fair and composed, and he did not favor harsh sentences.

Ian had obviously never seen him face-to-face before, but today the gray-haired man looked somewhat odd. Not composed at all. Like he was not in control of the situation.

"Ian Walker. For aggravated assault and battery, you are sentenced to nine months in juvenile confinement. By agreement with your parents, you will serve it in the Lake Tranquil Re-Education Facility."

The sound of the gavel echoed in the room.

Nine months, Ian thought. For what he'd done, it did not sound that bad. But what the fuck was that place? It sounded ominous. Like brainwashing. And they had told him nothing, even during the later visits! Right at the moment, Ian hated both David and Carol very much.

Then a further insight occurred to him.

The taste of the food at home, during the week he had felt so agitated. Very faint, but it was still something unnatural, something chemical.

Fuckers! They had been ... poisoning him? To make him do this?

This was beyond abysmal. Ian was not sure which of the nine levels of Hell it was, but it couldn't be just the first.


	6. Chapter 6

"So they have him now," David said. He knew it was a very much redundant statement, but he just wanted something to say.

Carol's voice was without much emotion. "Yes."

They were sitting on the living room sofa; none of the lights in the house were on, and the evening was getting darker. But it fit the mood just right.

"You couldn't have known how things would end up. We thought it was just for science," David went on.

"But what kind of science? Creating a killer of our son?"

Though Ian wasn't his son biologically, David had nevertheless always treated him like one. Now all of the memories related to him felt like they were turning to something very bitter. Or alternatively, fading away altogether. It was almost like the Devil had collected what belonged to him.

"We'll get him back, right?"

Carol took some seconds to answer. "In fact I don't know."

Something potentially inappropriate flashed to David's mind now. A trip to San Diego Comic-Con that they had undertaken very shortly after meeting for the first time. And by their usual luck the car had broken down with an electric failure. While waiting for the tow truck for hours, they had just listened to music on the radio. And, inspired by the convention, they had also crafted an elaborate fantasy where they were a comic book hero and heroine, on the run from an evil organization.

Could they become those heroes in reality now? It was a stupid thing to suggest, but so what? Just suggesting it could not make the situation worse. At least it proved that he was trying to be proactive, and that he cared. "What about we try to get him back?"

Carol's expression turned horrified.

"No! That's the last thing we should do. These people have no limits, no qualms. They'd either hurt him, kill him, or do the same to us. Without thinking twice."


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as the transport to the "re-education facility" had involved him getting a blindfold over his eyes, Ian knew that something was going on.

His blood was running cold.

This couldn't be the justice system running the place, but something else. A year back, he remembered reading about "specialty schools" programs which were basically just scams depriving the parents of their money for false promises, leaving the kids to suffer abuse at the hands of untrained personnel.

Had David and Carol fallen prey to a similar scheme?

But no ... it couldn't be just that, because those programs at least tried to make the kids behave better. And he had been deliberately made to behave the way he did. Chemically.

Just for a fleeting moment his fear was replaced with curiosity. It was possible he was witnessing some kind of conspiracy. If the facility was just a front for a secret program of some kind. To train elite fighters or something like that. Not that he wanted any of that, but if this was the reality he couldn't escape, then he would have to try his best. To let loose whatever beast was within him.

Suddenly he remembered more, something odd. Very early at school, possibly first or second grade.

The nurse had tested him for reflexes, and when he had talked to the other kids about it, they looked at him like he was out of his mind. They had received no such test.

But now Ian was jolted out of his thoughts as the van transporting him braked to a halt at last.

...

After the arrival, Ian had been ushered to a dark room and ordered to strip. Now he stood under a bright spotlight, dripping wet from the spray of water from a hose. He was certainly being observed, but he could not see by whom.

"Somewhat thin. But will do," a voice muttered.

A towel, some underwear and a featureless jumpsuit was thrown at him.

"Get dressed," another louder voice barked.

He did as ordered, glad to at least not be naked any more. As soon as he was done, a door opened at the far end of the room. Ian thought of the light at the end of the tunnel. As far as he could tell, all of this could be just a dream or hallucination before dying. It was hard to think of it as real at all. Though the pain from the jet of water had been very real.

He walked through the door, into a featureless white-tiled corridor. Soon, he emerged into a doctor's or nurse's room. There was a woman in white coat, and in the corner of the room stood a black-uniformed guard, armed with a submachine gun. Clearly, these people weren't messing around. Very likely, a secret program. Pure X-Files or Bourne territory.

"Is this killer training?" Ian raised his voice to ask. Though it could have consequences.

"Shut up," the guard snapped. "Didn't they tell you to only speak when spoken to?"

But the woman smiled just slightly, like Ian had in fact guessed exactly right.

"Lie down on the bed so I can take a blood sample. It should not hurt," she said.

Again, Ian did as ordered, and she tightened a strap on his left arm to make the vein visible, then pushed the needle in.

After the first and second vials, Ian began to question the procedure. Wasn't that enough already? As the drawing of blood still went on, he began to feel dizzy. Were they deliberately draining him of blood?

At five vials the woman finally stopped and drew the needle out, replacing it with a hastily taped wad of cotton. Ian's head was now throbbing nastily, and he was seeing black spots, like close to fainting.

"Very good. Now you need to get up and through that door," she said.

Ian had difficulty staying upright. He passed the guard, and just for an instant thought of grabbing his weapon and shooting both him and the woman dead.

"You'd want it?" the guard snarled. "Good. But don't try it. Or you'd be dead."

The impression strengthened. This was all about getting his killer instincts or whatever up. It was already so much beyond normal, so much beyond reality that it was hard to feel anything. Maybe that was the exact purpose. Ian concentrated now only on staying upright and conscious, as he emerged into another dark room.

A spotlight came on again, and he understood he was facing another boy roughly his age and height, with head shaved bald.

It was pretty much self-evident. He was expected to fight in this weakened state.

But to state the obvious, a voice came from a concealed loudspeaker. "Fight."

Ignoring the dizziness, Ian rushed forward almost by instinct. It was like accepting the inevitable. He was not to have a normal life, but to be trained to fight (and very likely to kill too) in this hellhole.

Fuck you all! Then he would fight.

At least this kid was unknown to him, not like Chuck. So he had no reason to hold anything back. For a moment a voice in the back of his head still said that violence was terrible and should be avoided, but there was exactly zero choice given to him.

So, let all the aggression out. Like last time.

The problem was, after the transportation that had left him stiff, not to even mention the drawing of blood, that was easier said than done. Ian found himself running mostly on empty.

He collided with the boy, their bodies tangled, and Ian unleashed a few body blows that did not seem to do much. His opponent responded with a blow to his cheek, and Ian lost his balance, almost blacking out.

Fuck. He could not do much. He wasn't even that physically strong. It was just the aggression that gave him strength.

But just as he was falling, it was like something in his mind took over, almost if time slowed down, and he understood to utilize his momentum and sweep forward with his foot to make the boy trip over too.

He fell roughly in front of Ian, and just for a moment Ian had the chance, so he sprang forward, which made the throbbing in his head much worse, but it just had to be ignored, and was on top of the boy now, pummelling him with a series of blows before he could get his defense up. It was like Ian was channelling strength out of nowhere, and the headache was fading to the backgrond, almost supernaturally.

The voice on the loudspeaker came back. "That is enough."

Ian stood up, while the other boy didn't. But at least his chest still moved.


	8. Chapter 8

Jo thought she was reaching a kind of plateau now. Both in regard to music, and self-defense. She definitely needed to join a band already, but there were little opportunities in her hometown. She did not want to compromise. It needed to be something skillful, aggressive and intelligent. And preferably speed or thrash metal. She knew that by that criteria she was ruling out like ninety percent of potential bands.

The karate and judo classes were something she just tried to persist through. As well as visiting the local firing range regularly. Of course, no full-auto firing there, just regular pistols, rifles and shotguns. All of it just took a lot of patience that she thought to not have. But there was no Matrix-like instant skill upload possibility in reality.

Finally, the situation at home was becoming somewhat ... unbearable. The studio had fewer and fewer clients, which meant Russ would sink deeper into the bottle, and Jo thought there was by now very little they could give to each other.

So she began to think of just taking off and heading out to the world. Permanently.

...

At Lake Tranquil Re-Education Facility, things had settled into somewhat of a routine. Though one of a most morbid kind.

During the precious moments of downtime, the trainees lived in primitive barrack-like buildings. Names were forbidden, so they referred to each other just by numbers. Ian was number 14. He had half-expected to get something more sinister, like 666. But maybe that would be reserved only to trainees much more promising than him. They all were roughly of the same age, ranging from fifteen to seventeen. Predominantly boys, but also a few girls.

The initial training consisted of a lot of physical exercise, and unarmed and armed close combat. Black-clad guards with guns ready watched over them wherever they went, and there were sniper towers around the facility perimeter, so there was little opportunity of escape or misbehavior. Or it would get an immediate fatal response.

Then, there was the dissociative part of the training. And it was something else. Like descending into Hell itself.

Most of the time, it involved sitting in a odd steel chair, in a reclining position, with electrodes taped to both sides of the head. Those were used to deliver painful electric shocks that would apparently temporarily reset the brain. After a sequence of those shocks, Ian often felt close to vomiting, the world before him spinning to every direction.

This was combined by reciting and memorizing odd, ritualistic phrases, building a system of layers inside the mind. Each layer would recall specific memories, and the layers could be recalled by uttering a code word or phrase. A frequently repeating phrase was "Chao ab ordo," chaos from order. At times it was just a voice from a recording, but at other times a live person reciting the phrases.

There was almost a religious component to the training. Like the people running it literally believed in and worshiped the Chaos. Sometimes, there were red-robed figures observing as Ian was being programmed. Like they were monks or priests. And often, a hawk-nosed older man. It appeared almost like Ian held a special meaning to him, though its exact nature remained unclear. Another repeated encounter was an almost skull-faced guy, who had burn scars in his neck. At times he led the training classes himself, in his own cruel and militaristic style.

Pain and torture were frequently tied to how well you did in the training. More electric shocks, asphyxiation, waterboarding, even the threat of permanent branding or loss of fingers or such. Fail enough, and you would just disappear; Ian saw this to happen to a few of the trainees.

So far he was hanging on; as the dissociation took hold more, it was getting easier to discard all emotion and to just accept what was happening. Sometimes his mind questioned of whether they could be efficient killers at all after all these ordeals; wouldn't they just be human wrecks?

But still, he found his body and mind obeying, becoming stronger and more precise. Mastering the arts of death.

...

Ian understood to have reached another stage of the training. Where the trainees would be tested more against each other again. Presumably, to eliminate the weaker candidates more efficiently.

This involved knife fighting inside cages with steel bars.

During a round, the bars would be electrified. Not fatally, but enough to cause pain and disorientation. This could be used tactically, by throwing the opponent against them, as long as you stood clear yourself.

Ian was ushered inside a cage for his first match.

He held the special forces-like knife steadily, like using it was already second nature. From hidden speakers, Ian heard familiar music blasting. "Rivalry and retribution, death the only solution!" the vocalist shouted. It had to be Slayer.

Ian's opponent was a gaunt-faced boy, appearing somewhat fearful. But it could be a trick, so Ian made a note to be extra careful. The music volume increased and an electronic bell sound rang as the round began.

It did not take long for Ian to get the upper hand; a quick exchange of blows and dodges, and he had the blade at the boy's neck.

But then, almost out of nowhere, he headbutted Ian and Ian fell against the cage bars, receiving an electric shock. The knife clattered out of his hand.

Ian scrambled to regain the weapon, fearing he had already made a fatal mistake, as the boy did something odd.

"Watch this," he whispered.

While shielding himself from the presumed direction of the cameras or spectators, he cut himself to his left hand.

Some blood ran out from the cut. But after a few seconds, the cut began to close by itself. Ian honestly could not understand.

"I'm getting bored by this shit," the boy said. "So what about we keep it up, until the timer runs out. Just acting."

It was beyond belief for a trainee to defy the program in that manner. But he clearly was something not of this world. Some kind of experiment, to make him heal at a miraculous rate? If that was the case, Ian understood that the training program would be mostly ineffective for him. If all damage healed so fast, there was no real threat from the punishments. Except getting killed outright, of course.

But Ian could well agree to the plan, though he was afraid of the consequences if they were found out.

...

The play-acted cage fight ended in a tie, and they were back at the barracks.

The gaunt-faced boy's number was 18, but Ian also knew his first name now, against the rules. Lucas. And Ian had also revealed his own name in return.


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: Seems to be almost a tradition in AoM fanfiction that at some point someone goes on a monologue. This is my contribution, just to lighten the mood a bit!_

...

Somewhat reluctantly Ian had to admit that he and Lucas had become friends, as far as it was possible in this environment.

"Why me?" Ian asked him as they sat in the corner of their barracks building, that was empty apart from them.

"I don't know exactly. Maybe I thought that you weren't that dangerous."

Ian felt a bit of disappointment at that. Though – didn't it tell that the training program didn't have a complete hold on him? That he had not become a complete remorseless killing machine yet.

So far it was a bit one-sided, with Ian asking all the questions.

"How exactly do you heal that fast?"

"I don't know exactly myself either. It could be nanomachines. Like, very tiny robots inside my veins that do their thing."

There was a pause of silence. They had to converse very quietly to not call undue attention to themselves.

Lucas spoke up then. "How about I ask you something. What is best in life?"

That was a very tough question. Ian thought that the rest of the world was so far away, that he had forgotten almost everything about it. He still remembered the canonical answer, from that movie, and it would even have fit with the training, but he didn't want to go with that.

But then, he somehow sunk back through the layers of his programmed mind to the past, to be able to answer. He thought to give the answer in the format of the "wrong" one.

"Fast guitar. Strong beer. Fire in your heart. And -"

He paused, searching for the words. It was surprisingly straining, going backward in time now. And he didn't even have that much experience in the final thing he was going to mention.

"- the one you love at your side."

Lucas seemed thoughtful.

"Hmm. That's interesting. I'm not going to say 'wrong,' or 'that is good,' because everyone has their own thing."

For a moment it felt absurd, discussing in movie quotes within a secret killer training camp.

Lucas continued, almost like he was going into a monologue. "For simplicity I will assume that someone is a she. Though it doesn't really matter. So you might for example want to watch her sleep, just because. No, don't think of that awful film where they drill the asteroid. Just the general idea."

Ian thought Lucas was really going off the rails. But then, he was revealing something about himself, something he likely didn't do at least to everyone in this hellhole, so Ian needed to respect that. And he found the general idea agreeable.

"Or you might want to carry her, again, just because. But there's a catch. You must have a set destination in mind. Never just go round and round in a circle. Know why?"

Ian did not have the faintest clue, but apparently this too was something Lucas felt strongly about.

"Because then you're a suicidal cop played by Mel Gibson and she is dead."

Ian stopped just short of laughing, as then the entire barracks would have been alerted. He could only think that Lucas was a rather funny guy for someone who apparently had robots for blood.

...

Ian thought the training was escalating. Now it was firearms, first semi-automatic and then automatic, and the camp's firing range was not enough, as it was a too static and limiting environment. So they were transported to other secret locations, of course blindfolded and handcuffed.

One of them was an underground corridor maze, where he participated in a "deathmatch" of sorts, running around and shooting the other trainees with guns modified to fire rubber bullets. Apparently at this point every surviving trainee was considered high-value enough to not be killed by the exercise outright. On the corridor walls, Ian caught an odd symbol – a sphere within a triangle. Was that the symbol of the organization behind the training?

...

Now Ian found himself back in the oppressive steel chair again. The dissociative phrase training had taken a backseat for some time, but apparently now was the time for it again.

He had headphones on, and began to hear a very high-pitched sound, which went even higher, disappearing as it probably went to the ultrasound range. Only a tingling sensation remained.

Without warning he received a strong, prolonged shock through his head. This repeated, over and over, until the whitecoats with the equipment were satisfied that he now felt nauseous and shaky from just hearing the sound itself.

Apparently this was some sort of security encoding.

...

"We're going to be named," Lucas said to Ian one evening. "That must mean the training is well over halfway."

Ian had lost track of the months already. Only barely he remembered that it was supposed to be a total of nine. He was able to recall that it had been late spring when he had been sentenced. Now it was winter. Though the actual length might well be different from what the judge had told.

Soon enough, figures in robes entered the barracks building, and the trainees were taken to a large below-ground chamber.

One by one, they were to approach an altar and drink from a chalice. There were candles casting an eerie glow, and more of the robed figures watching in the darkness, several of them holding ceremonial knives. A person that Ian thought of as a priest spoke, or more like hissed to each trainee as they drank.

Lucas was just ahead of Ian, so that Ian could hear the words.

"You shall henceforth be known as Reaper."

Lucas drank.

Now it was Ian's turn. Whatever was in that chalice was likely disgusting, but dissociation steeled his mind to accept it no matter what.

He climbed to the altar, faced the priest-figure, and took the chalice in both hands, careful not to drop it.

"You shall henceforth be known as Necro."

Ian downed the contents; he recognized the copper taste of blood.

Finally, as everyone had received their names, they were to chant responses in unison according to a large teleprompter display in the chamber's ceiling.

The priest would speak each of the question parts, in a much louder and booming voice now.

"Who are we?"

Ian squinted his eyes to make sure he was reading the teleprompter correctly. The chamber reverberated from the trainees' voices. It was almost painfully loud.

"THE SECTARIAN CHOSEN ELITE!"

"What is our privilege?"

"TO RULE AND EXTERMINATE!"

"Who are our enemies?"

"THE AGENTS OF METAL!"

"What have they done?"

"THEY HAVE DISGRACED US!"

"What must we do?"

"RETALIATE! KILL, KILL, KILL, KILL!"

Ian could not make any sense of this. What Agents? The other trainees except Lucas were almost whipping themselves into a ritualistic frenzy. Or at least were acting as if they were.


	10. Chapter 10

Nighttime.

For some reason Ian had not fallen asleep yet. He knew it was possibly bad, if the next day was going to be as straining as this one had been – heavy weapons training, including the M60 machine gun, and some form of portable minigun only the strongest trainees were able to wield.

Suddenly there was the sound of automatic gunfire outside. Was it an exercise too? To test the readiness of the trainees?

Ian looked out of the barracks' window and saw the unmistakable yellow glow of fire. The camp was ablaze!

Fuck. This would be an extreme form of exercise. Ian rather hazarded that it wasn't. That the camp was being attacked for real instead.

By whom? The Agents? In any case, it could provide a possibility to escape.

At this point Ian thought that it was thanks to Lucas that he had been able to retain some of his willpower and sanity and initiative. But then – he saw several of the other trainees already running out. They had possessed no such benefit.

Was the dissociative training a failure then? It did not cultivate lasting loyalty at all?

To be honest, Ian did not give a shit. But he would be extremely glad to leave this place behind, if he just did not get killed in the process. He had to assume that the snipers in the towers were still going to fire at him.

He had no gear to speak of – for security reasons the trainees would only be armed in each exercise, and the weapons taken away afterward. So he just tied his boots and was ready to head out into the moonlit winter night.

He peered out cautiously from the doorway. There were two sniper towers between him and the entrance gate. The gate was naturally closed, and it had barbed wire on top if it, so he would need to get clever.

Suddenly the gate was obliterated in an explosion. Possibly a rocket-propelled grenade.

Now there was no doubt of the attack. Ian squinted his eyes to see if there was anyone left in the towers. Just at the moment they both looked empty. Still the snipers could only be momentarily ducked into cover.

Ian thought of Lucas one more time. No sight of him for a while. But it was kind of late to ponder if he was going to join the escape or not.

The final threshold. Out or not?

Out, Ian decided. He launched into a crouched run, going into the cover of a parked truck. So far, so good. No sniper shot ringing out.

Then, it was back to running. The gate was not that far.

Ian's mind raced with paranoia. To be shot within a few feet of freedom? It would be a cruel failure.

Past the mangled gate now.

Freedom! Ian could not believe it.

...

The feeling of joy began to sink rapidly, as Ian understood there seemed to be just an endless forest ahead of him, the weather was chilly, and he had no food or equipment.

Well, still he needed to get as far away from this Sectarian Chosen Elite as he could. No going back to that particular form of Hell. Even if he froze to death.

He kept running.

...

It was a rare night when it seemed Jo could not get sleep at all. Her thoughts kept circling, and finally she got dressed and headed outside, to take a look at the orange Datsun that had been sitting unused behind the studio building for years. The one she had learned to "drive" in. A cold wind swept snow over it now, and it was a rather depressive sight in total.

She had thought of taking a hike already, right in the middle of winter. But something held her back. At least she would want to finish school first. To have a backup plan if joining or forming the most extreme thrash band would not exactly pan out.

She thought she could tolerate the situation until then. The first step would be to search for potential bands a little further away.

One thing she was now perfectly sure of. The world of conspiracies she had imagined, was just that, imagination. There was no need to be able to kick ass, except to defend against a burglar or a robber or a rapist. But no programmed high-tech killers or aliens roaming this side of reality.

So she could just concentrate on music.

That at least was good.

...

Ian tripped and fell against the undergrowth. He took a moment to take his bearings. Still, just forest all around.

Or ... wait?

Was there like a glow of a flare ahead of him? Was it a Sectarian Elite search team looking for the escaped trainees, or what?

He probably just needed to take the chance, as he was already feeling desperately cold. He began to head toward the light.

He almost tripped over the second time as he understood there were figures in long leather coats coming to meet him. Ian could not discern their features in the darkness.

"You're one of the trainees?" a male voice asked. "We're the Agents. Come with us."

For a moment Ian froze in place. Could he trust them at all? According to the recitation, the Agents were the Sectarian Elite's sworn enemy. How could he know whether he was going to get a bullet through his head right after, if he agreed?

He had to raise his voice to question.

"Is this some kind of rescue? Or are you going to kill me later? If it's a rescue, it's a damn poorly planned one! I could have frozen solid out here!"


	11. Chapter 11

The rest of the rescue went smoother. The Agents used a short-range electromagnetic pulse device to permanently fry any tracking devices potentially hidden inside his body or clothes, and then he got to climb aboard a pleasantly warm van. There were two more trainees already inside.

After the initial awkwardness, Ian got to know their first names and codenames. The guy with a black mop of hair was Scott, codename Satariel, and the girl with a blank stare and no hair at all was Ana, aka Inanna.

As the journey went on, Ian heard the Agents discussing the assault on the camp. Apparently it had also been to recover some information, but everything had not gone well.

"Ranger was gunned down. And the enemy got to his body first."

"Damn. But at least one can think - he's with his son now. Lucas, right?"

Ian opened his mouth and was ready to say something, then he thought not to. It could have been just a coincidence.

...

Once arriving at the Agent headquarters, which was a small underground facility mostly built of concrete, the operative Ian interacted most with used the codename Sarge. He was possibly in his mid-twenties, tall and somewhat round-featured, and relaxed in his behavior.

For now Ian was confined inside the headquarters. And obviously he had a lot of questions.

"So, do you have a real name?" Ian asked Sarge.

"I'm afraid I can't reveal it. You must understand, due to the way you were trained we need to treat you like a potential enemy. And this period of your life will be temporary. It's called counter-programming, or simply deprogramming. Basically your mind needs to be fucked around one more time so that we can be sure you're not a threat to us or the society, that there's no hidden time-bomb programming. You'll forget everything of your time here. The objective is also that you forget your training. If not completely, then as fully as possible."

"Do I get a new identity? Is this a bit like witness protection? And just to make sure, are you ... government agents?"

Sarge answered out of order.

"We're definitely not government. You could say we're ... independent. And yes, you'll get a new name. How safe you're after that, is up to you."

Independent did not sound too ... trustworthy. And a new name ... Ian needed to think.

"Can I still be Ian? With just a new last name?"

"That's obviously less safe. But it's your choice."

Ian thought about it a bit more. He remembered something, and almost felt like tears. His Dad talking of mullets, like an eternity ago. Of course, he was scum of the worst degree, if he had given his own son to be brainwashed and tortured. But still, the condition for Ian getting the guitar had felt genuine and yet ridiculous at the time.

So. Mullets. Who had the most holy, the most revered mullet in all of metal?

Ian did not even care for the band and the genre that much, preferring the more aggressive genres instead, but still he knew the answer. There was no question.

Adrian Smith from Iron Maiden.

Though Ian would prefer to grow his hair from all sides and not just a mullet, he would choose to become Ian Smith.

...

Another day at the headquarters. They were waiting for the chemical deprogramming specialist from the pharmaceuticals section of the military-supplies company Grieg Industries, which had ties to the Agents, so Ian still had time before his mind would be fucked over one more time. With the dissociative training over and some of his emotions seemingly returning already, it was actually scary to think about. Couldn't it go south? What if he ended up as a complete vegetable?

Sarge alerted him unexpectedly.

"Hey. I've got some stuff I want to get rid of. You said you played guitar. I used to, too."

"What stuff exactly?"

"Come take a look."

Sarge led Ian to a storage closet at the back of the headquarters and switched on the light.

There was a guitar case, light brown tweed. Sarge opened it to reveal a black superstrat-like guitar, a worn and scratched Charvel. And Ian knew it was simply too much.

"I can't take that," he said.

"Sure you can. And that's not all. There's also a tape deck you could have. No-one uses those anymore. I have some Deicide and Nargaroth tapes, at least."

To tell the truth, Ian couldn't believe this was happening. To start his new life with those, instead of precisely nothing, was something he never could have expected. Especially of the Agents.

...

The deprogramming specialist was still taking time to arrive. All of the official matters were settled at this point, so Ian spent time with the two other ex-trainees.

Or actually it went so that Scott liked to keep mostly to himself as he waited for the deprogramming, so that left mostly Ana. Or Inanna.

"So ... Necro. What's your story?" she asked.

Ian told as well as he could remember, starting from his early bursts of aggression, up to his parents' chemically strengthened food and him assaulting and hospitalizing Chuck. But he could not tell for what reason they had given him to the Sectarian Elite in the first place.

"Mine is somewhat similar," Ana said. "I had a heart defect that was not fixable. That's where they stepped in in my case. They told my folks I'd get an experimental, artificial heart, in exchange of them taking me in for training once I hit sixteen. They had no money to speak of, and I was not likely going to last in the transplant queue, so ... here I am. I guess I'm lucky that the early hearts like mine don't have much security to speak of. They just keep going. Now I suppose they're building ones that can be stopped remotely."

Of course. It sounded perfectly sectarian. The level of science seemed out of this world, again. Perhaps just a little more normal than nanomachines that healed wounds at unnatural speed.

"I guess all of us trainees have a story somewhat like that," Ana concluded.

Ian thought some more. What was the thing in his case? The reason for selling him out? He just couldn't figure it out.

So he just turned to look at Ana. And thought of what more he could say.

"I think ... I'm happy for you. That the sectarian assholes gave you that and ended up with nothing. It serves them just right. Though it's got to be tough, everything you went through. And now you're getting a new identity too, like me? Like starting from nothing again."

"Yeah," Ana said quietly and stared just as blankly back at Ian as she always did. "But I can't remember the last time someone said they were happy for me."

At this point Ian lost it. He closed Ana into his arms and began to cry against her shoulder. It was patently ridiculous, he had aimed at trying to make her feel better, and where had that gotten him?

"That too, can't remember," Ana said, the voice somewhat blank too.

"I'm sorry," Ian managed to say back.

"Don't be. We won't remember. After the deprogramming. It won't hurt then."

Ian thought himself to be thoroughly lost. Stop it, he thought. It was like she knew precisely what to say to make him open up like a river, and then piled on it some more. But if she wanted to be held, if she actually wanted him crying against her, then he was going to keep doing exactly that. Ian also tried to think back to what he had discussed with Lucas. It was possibly something for this kind of situation. But he found he could no longer remember.


	12. Chapter 12

Sarge had alerted them that the specialist was just a few hours' drive away now. Still, Ian wished to not quite get up yet. It felt almost like dreaming, but he knew he definitely was awake.

It was late morning, and they were in one of the improvised guestrooms of the headquarters. Ana was lying there beside him, her gray eyes open now. Her left arm was across Ian's chest, and she stroked his hair a little.

"Ian ... I think I like it better than Necro." There was now a touch of humor in the voice.

Ian could not help smiling. "I'm not sure about Inanna. You could keep that."

He paused just for a few seconds.

"Kidding, of course. Ana. That's you. And you know, I really wish I could remember, but I know this way is better for safety."

Last night he had had a rather agitated discussion with Sarge. He had only known Ana for a few days, yet he had wanted to search for some kind of loophole, that they for example could be placed to the same location afterward. Though of course there was no guarantee that they'd want to have anything to do with each other then.

Ian knew he would be going into a state-run group home until he would legally be an adult. That was easiest for the Agents to arrange, instead of actual foster parents. Strictly speaking, it was usually for kids with – issues, which was of course fitting. But Ian thought he was in the clear now. Maybe he would get to meet some interesting personalities. In the very least it could not be half as bad as the Lake Tranquil Re-Education Facility.

The discussion had felt like some frantic race against time, like Ian was the lead in a romantic comedy or something, desperately trying to find a way for them to stay together. And he hated those!

But Sarge had not given an inch, and finally Ian had understood the rules were necessary for safety. For the trainees to be separated, so that the Sectarian Elite would have a much harder time tracking them down in the future. It was the way it had to be if he really cared for Ana's well-being. And of course he wanted to.

"Me too," Ana replied.

Ian thought he felt more calm and collected now, that he could accept it. In the very least it would be like she had said, that because they wouldn't remember, it wouldn't hurt.

"Hey. You have written something on your hand. Let me see."

Ian opened his right hand and let her take a look at what he had written with a black marker pen. She read the words aloud, and Ian could not help feeling a little embarrassed.

"Play guitar. Grow hair. Drink beer. That's not ... really high-brow."

"Right. But that's the only thing they let me write down. Even then they went through the words many times, so that there was no hidden message in there."

Sarge had not been confident enough to judge the matter alone, so he had summoned an older, more stoic-looking Agent to examine what Ian had been about to write to himself. His codename was Blackhand.

But now there was still something Ian wanted to say. Actually, lots of things, but this was the first on his mind.

"Sarge gave me a guitar to take with me. And I thought it was the best thing to happen to me. But of course I was wrong."

Ana needed to think for a few seconds. Then she shook her head, speaking almost in a whisper.

"Now you're trying to make me cry."

"What's so bad about it?"

"It's ... just not me. But just kiss me already."

Of course Ian was happy to comply, and lifted his head so that their lips could meet. Again, he thought Ana felt just a little bit cool. He hoped the artificial heart was working correctly, at full blast, and that she would have a long life ahead of her. Even if he was not to see her again in just a few hours time.

...

Finally the chemical deprogramming procedure was under way for Ian. He still went mentally through the words he had written to his hand, though it was no use, if the treatment was going to wipe the last few days and the training clean off. He just hoped the writing itself would be legible afterward.

It was actually a team of two that had arrived from Grieg Industries. The second of them looked perfectly ordinary, perfectly non-threatening, just a middle-aged man with glasses, and black hair balding from the top. Ian was lying on a stretcher in a just as improvised treatment room, an IV line going into his vein. It certainly had been an armory before, but with the guns taken off the racks so that there would be no memory of weapons in case the chemicals would be partially ineffective.

"This should not hurt. There's going to be no shocks, for instance. I'll administer the anaesthetic first. Basically, you will be asleep for the most of it."

That he mentioned shocks at all, meant he had to be to a degree knowledgeable of the Sectarian Elite's methods. Of course, he had to be, to be able to do the counter-programming efficiently. Still Ian felt just a bit uneasy. He would not have preferred to allow himself on anyone's mercy at this point.

But it had to happen, so that he could begin the rest of his life.

The specialist pushed the plunger down on the syringe going into the line, and soon Ian began to feel an odd sensation. Like his mind was already dissolving into something warm. But that had to be just imagination. It was just the sleeping agent at first, like the man said.

Ian thought back to how it had went with Ana, who the first specialist – a just as middle-aged woman – had taken in first for treatment in the adjacent room, the Agent infirmary. Ian had been allowed to be there for the beginning, to hold Ana's hand until she went under. That had felt like the proper - the least - thing he could do. From thinking back to it, Ian thought like he would shed tears once more, but that too felt proper, that he wanted to hold on to that memory as long as possible.

But at last Ian began to fall into blackness, until there were no thoughts any more.


	13. Chapter 13

It was unusual but not unheard of that he, Suhrim, the Head of Security, would take on an assignment by himself. But it was something the head scientist Baphomet had felt very strongly about, and it was of course essential that the Science and Security divisions stay in good understanding.

Naturally, would the assignment cause the Elite to be compromised in some manner, Suhrim knew he would be facing potential execution just the same as those working under him. He knew in that case some would be very happy that the "skull-face of Security" would be going down at last.

But he was sure everything would go as intended. Both of the Walkers would be eliminated in just a few moments. To make sure there were no unnecessary loose ends after the escape of trainee Necro.

The green Ford Fiesta was parked on the driveway, just as expected. This meant that Carol was working from home today, as per usual schedule. David would arrive slightly later; Suhrim knew he rode a bicycle to work even in the winter, if the weather just permitted.

Suhrim closed the distance to the house and circled to the back, careful to not slip on the slight layer of snow in front of the door, that might have ice underneath. The high bush fence made it ideal to pick the lock without any of the neighbors noticing.

It took only twenty seconds; Suhrim would have preferred ten. He slipped inside the house, taking the silenced pistol from within his coat.

But not many seconds from entering, his blood began to run cold. He was now sure the house was deserted.

Greeting him was a large piece of cardboard that hung from the ceiling, a crude comic book-like figure drawn on it. A man sporting a mullet and a nose almost like the dog characters in Donald Duck comics, with a speech bubble that read:

 _FUCK THE SECTARIAN ELITE!_

If they wanted to pursue the issue, they would now have a prolonged manhunt ahead of them.

Fuck, indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

_AN: Borrows a bit from ArmageddonClan's "Loaded" – particularly the Slayer concert, but still a bit differently! Thanks for the idea!  
_

 _..._

As the spring months progressed, Jo thought she felt unmistakably bittersweet. As soon as the senior year would be over, she would be leaving and not coming back. Russ knew it too by now. Throughout the year, Jo had worked as a cashier to save money to eventually live on her own. And for the two-three clients that had still ventured all the way to Antisound Studio, she had worked as an assistant recording engineer. She had almost not wanted to take the money, but Russ had been insistent.

"I know I haven't exactly been a model dad," Russ said to her as they sat at the kitchen table.

"Yeah, but, you got me playing. And I remember how you tried to turn me away from being too consumed by all that conspiracy and self-defense stuff. You were right, in the end," Jo replied.

Russ did not reply back immediately, but just stared off onto the long driveway for a while.

"Will you come to visit me?"

"Let's see where I end up first. I don't know that myself either."

"The Bay Area. That's where you've got to head, if thrash metal is your thing."

It was of course a self-evident choice. Though, couldn't it be rather expensive to live there?

...

A most profound feeling of disorientation. That was all that Ian could remember of the past few weeks. He had arrived at the group home with his belongings, all right, and he had read the few words he had apparently scrawled on his hand by himself, but it seemed to make little sense.

Quickly he understood that the five others living with him were not exactly the most stellar company. In fact he hated almost every minute of it. Matt, Nikki, Luann, Timothy, Alice (a guy, after Alice Cooper.) The noise just did not stop.

One of the first things Ian summoned the energy for investing in were extra-heavy-grade ear plugs. The next on the list probably needed to be a practice amp, to pay back in noise of his own ... if he made it that far.

There was something odd he noticed now. If he actually decided to learn something, it would happen unusually quickly. Whether he had the motivation, was another matter. Despite his commandment to himself, the black Charvel honestly did not feel that inviting, even though he tried to push himself. One of the few things he did regularly was to just play the same note at maximum or near maximum speed, to build his right hand endurance.

Then, he studied too, so that he could eventually catch up and get his school diploma. There was something odd with the previous grades – they were better than he thought they should be. It was like he had been picked up and placed into another reality. Or even another life. Maybe he had just valued himself too low previously?

Perhaps it was best to not pay too much attention to all of that, but to look forward to when he could leave this madhouse behind.

There was something of a short-term goal ahead, in July there would be a Slayer concert close by.

That he would not want to miss.

...

Finally Jo was on her way out, on the bus, leaving the dusty and small hometown behind. And Russ. She had just a full-packed backpack with her; the Les Paul Studio was left in the studio building where it belonged. In that respect too, she needed to start building her life on her own, though even a few hundred bucks for a used guitar would definitely hurt, possibly requiring her to eat very spartanly for the next month or two.

During the final month at home she had expanded her musical horizons a bit. To depressive, mostly European black metal. She was by no means a fan, but in its conflicted ridiculousness, Nargaroth had left some kind of a mark. At least the song "The Day Burzum Killed Mayhem." It was a surprisingly earnest description of the questionable glory days of the Scandinavian BM scene, their "inner circle," whose antics had also resulted in the scene's most famous murder. In the song the vocalist described the feelings it evoked from a fan's perspective.

The lines that stuck in her mind most were "My emotions so confused. My soul was seeking answers. No knife I let unused."

It was not even grammatically correct, and seriously speaking self-harm was not a laughing matter, but somehow she could identify. At least with being confused.

Jo hoped to find some kind of job soon so that she could attend a string of concerts in the summer. At least Megadeth, possibly Slayer too.

...

The day of the Slayer concert, part of the Unholy Alliance tour, was one of pure madness. The searing hot sun upon the amphitheatre, and the constant flow of beer. In the end his housemates had been good for at least one thing, they had procured Ian a passable fake ID, just so that he could drink already. Of course, it could mean serious trouble. But Slayer was worth it.

By the time the previous band finished their set, Ian was profoundly drunk. It was just on the edge, that one more, and he could easily get booted off the venue just for not staying upright and conscious at all. He knew he had to focus now, so that he would not miss the main act itself.

Waiting for the gear change felt like neverending torture. Ian hoped an actual hangover would not start before Slayer would finish.

At last the crowd began to gather in larger masses, as the soundcheck noise had stopped. Ian thought he should certainly stay off the pit, as he could just fall down upon first impact and not get up again.

But he certainly was conscious enough to headbang all the way through. He was sure his neck would protest like hell during the following days, but it was worth it, and he was still young.

The final song was justifiably "Angel of Death." At this point Ian had managed to push himself to the very front row, as some before him had just run out of energy.

Some distance to the right, he caught a glimpse of a redhead girl, also banging her head like there was no tomorrow. And in addition, playing air guitar like she knew all of the riffs.

There was an air of pure metal about it that made Ian feel - he did not even know what he was feeling. He almost thought of whether he should go to speak to her after the set. But he judged his state of drunkenness. What would likely come out would be just slurred, indecipherable words. It was just better to enjoy the show to the maximum, then suffer the consequences.

...

The next day, Ian no longer remembered most of the concert. The agony, both from the hangover and the whiplash motion of his neck, was legendary. He could only conclude that it had been completely worth it.


	15. Chapter 15

It was a slow path that took Jo almost two years, but at last she had settled near the coast.

Now she was a forklift driver at a warehouse, which paid slightly better than the other odd jobs she had been in. But any true revelation regarding her musical career was still thoroughly missing. When just driving a load in a straight line she could daydream, and she was always inventing new riffs ... though they seemed to be just wasting away now.

So far, the most potential had been Night Striker, an all-female speed metal band. They had played fast as hell, and Jo had enjoyed writing dual leads with the other guitarist, the fair-haired Elissa. But now Jo did not even remember why it exactly had started going down the drain. Differences over musical direction? Too much drinking and partying? Or just too volatile band chemistry? Everything had escalated in one weekend-long session of boozing and arguing and then all activity had just died down in a heartbeat.

She almost thought of compromising. Could she enjoy becoming a session musician for instance? Russ had said that she would have possessed the natural talent to adapt to any genre. Jo herself was not that sure.

Fuck. Speed or thrash was still where it was at. If not that, then she could leave the guitar in its case.

It felt honestly like a terrifying option, because then she did not know what she was going to do with her life for real. Driving a forklift did not count exactly, though it just about paid the bills.

This day was unusual in more than one way. Or shittier in more than one way. First of all, she had started one hour late. Because in the morning she had visited Axes 'n' Amps, the local music store, to get better pickups for her guitar, which for the moment was a red Ibanez RG with a black pickguard. Then, only one hour after she had started, the lift's electric engine had broken down.

Now she was waiting for the repair man, with little else to do. She had her bag with the pickups on her shoulder, thinking of leaving equally earlier for lunch, as she had arrived late.

Then she began to hear the sound of a van from outside, through the wide main loading door that had been open since the morning, as it was a hot day again.

With luck it was the repair man already.

The white van stopped and a guy jumped out from the driver seat. He was somewhat different than Jo had expected. Long, wavy black hair, a very square face, and dressed completely in denim. He looked almost ... metal.

He walked toward the disabled forklift on the warehouse's concrete floor, off to the side.

"So this is the patient?" he asked. The look in his eyes was somewhat intense, like he was a field medic in war, and the lift's survival could depend on seconds.

"Yes," Jo replied.

"I'll get my tools," the guy said and went back to the back of the van, rummaged for a while, then returned with two large black toolboxes. He set them out on the floor and began to open the rear panel, to reveal the motor.

"I happened to see inside your bag. Hope you don't mind. Were those guitar pickups?" he asked Jo all of a sudden.

Without waiting for an answer, he went on. "I play too. Bass guitar. Also, sing a little. Or it's mostly barking. I mean, in thrash."

"Yeah. I play ... guitar," Jo said somewhat absently. "I too ... like thrash metal."

She could have stopped there, but somehow the words just kept coming out, though it could have been almost ridiculous, or childish, what she was saying. "Like, it's the ultimate genre if you put both ... your heart and brain to it. And don't half-ass anything. Then there's ... no limits really."

The guy stopped what he was doing and turned to stare at Jo.

"Fuck! How is this possible? I come to repair a fucking electric forklift and I meet someone who thinks almost exactly the same of the best genre that exists. And I don't even know your name yet."

"I'm Jo," Jo said modestly. That barrage was kind of much to take.

"René. And my band is seriously looking for a guitar player. We don't fuck around. We want to take on the world."


	16. Chapter 16

It would be a trio with her joining, Jo soon found out. The band was called Cyberpriest, which was slightly odd. René explained that it was inspired by one cult black metal band, which had a song called Cyberchrist.

The previous guitarist, Rob aka Tyrant, had also been the co-vocalist before. But there had been irreconcilable differences and René had kicked him out; Rob had subsequently started his own band Blasphemer, which kept more to the black metal side of things. From this point on Cyberpriest's style would definitely be pure complex thrash metal.

Jo noticed that René certainly liked to keep things in control. He was the guy with the vision. In Night Striker the endless discussions and compromises had severely eaten the whole band's energy, but that would not be a danger here. With his bass guitar and leadership, he resembled Iron Maiden's Steve Harris. But in contrast, he also sang.

Their drummer was Vargr (real name Mick), a member of the Odin's Hammer MC. He was almost as intense as René, just without the hair, always dressed in black leather. Jo could not exactly feel at ease in his company. Maybe it was the nagging thought that he might tangle the band in some kind of illegal activity.

But Mick could play solidly, and always behaved despite his MC status, and that was what mattered.

They rehearsed several times a week in a concrete storage bunker below ground level. Jo understood that she would be joining in a challenging phase, as the new musical direction and new songs were just in progress.

After two of the rehearsals, where she used the half-stack amplifier René had apparently bought from Tyrant before booting him out, having learned the songs so far from a burned CD, she had no reason to decline. She would prefer the challenge.

One song she had instantly fallen in love with, which was just unnamed at this point and not complete, involved chromatic sixteenth notes going up and down the neck. This alternated with odd dissonant chords. The lyrics were supposed to be Satanic, but they did not exist yet.

...

To celebrate her joining, they all went to drink at the Hades Club. Jo had never been there before; one had to descend steep stairs below ground level to enter. Inside were two floors full of bars and a stage on the lower level. Tonight it was just canned music though.

"Harald is an OK guy," Mick said. "A biker too. Bad shit happens to those who try to fuck with this club."

Jo understood he had to be talking of the club owner.

They got their beers, and Jo drank eagerly, straight from the bottle.

For a moment she found herself with just René at the bar; Mick was somewhere else.

"I think I left something out at the warehouse," René began. "What I actually wanted to say, that I meet someone who thinks almost exactly the same and is also..."

"Is what?" Jo was a bit curious. Though she had her assumptions where it was going. And she thought to not mind, at least right now.

René spat the words out a bit awkwardly. "One stunning package."

Jo was sure she blushed and had to lean against the bar a bit.

"But I guess you have some lucky guy already," René finished.

Jo turned to him. "No. I don't," she said a bit sharply. When in somewhat awkward situations, she turned to musical terms for relief, right now she thought that her voice was out of tune. If that was even possible.

She drank more of her beer.

"And I don't know how lucky you'd be," she said, again a bit absently. "I live just for the music."

René looked at her, with the intense field-medic-coming-to-save-the-forklift gaze again. "Do I look like someone who'd ask for anything more?"

Jo thought it was some kind of mutated movie quote. She closed her eyes for a while, thinking of the past two years. She'd met a few guys, mostly through the odd jobs she'd held, but to tell the truth she'd prefer to forget that whole period. Something also nagged at the back of her head, on the subject of combining band membership and relationships, but she thought those rules wouldn't necessarily apply in every case. Almost subconsciously, her mouth curled into a smile.

"And when you do that it's better than thrash played at 200 BPM or more."

Fuck. René was already getting rather impossible. Well, then she'd respond in kind. Jo finished her beer and moved closer.

"So what if I do it again?"

She deliberately smiled with her eyes closed one more time. She remembered hearing of it on more than one occasion, so supposedly she looked somehow pretty doing that.

"Then I have no choice."

René kissed her, and Jo thought it felt very energizing. Like she could never get enough of it. She thought her legs could give way if it went on too long, but by now René also had his arms securely around her, so there was no risk even in that case.

But as soon as their lips were not touching any more, and Jo had somewhat returned to reality, she had to ask. "Will Mick be OK with this?"

René seemed a bit surprised. "Why wouldn't he? Of course this doesn't have to affect the band in any way."

Jo thought she felt just a bit disappointed at the answer. Why though? All reasons to be disappointed were childish. She knew enough of band dynamics that a king and queen -configuration was not good. Rather have René as the leader, as long as he knew his direction. Still on some level she couldn't help it.

Fuck. Enough of mulling over stupid doubts. She had already solved two problems in a very short time. Another beer would be very fitting now.

...

Jo believed that the morning that followed was the best she had ever experienced so far in her life.

It was René's place, a two-room apartment that was nothing special. But to wake up to the sunlight filtering in and a bass guitar being played acoustically, and with fingers like Steve Harris did - though in Cyberpriest René normally played with a pick - brought an instant smile to her face. She opened her eyes and saw René was playing it naked.

He probably heard her shifting around as he stopped and turned to look. Jo tried to pretend she was still asleep.

"You're not fooling me," René said. "That smile gives you away."

Jo thought she felt so happy that she could not even respond in any coherent manner. The image in her mind was that she wanted to take René in her arms and through some - gateway - to a stage where pink foam would be falling from the ceiling from the power of a thousand kilowatts, and the crowd would be going completely nuts.

Fuck. That was the wrong image. That was not thrash. The stage should be just the one at Hades Club. No pink foam. And the method of going nuts needed to be a circle pit.


	17. Chapter 17

The very first actual Cyberpriest song had been finalized. It was the chromatic one, and that Jo certainly was already proud of. René, slightly less so, just due to the lyrics potentially being a little childish. René wanted to head away from the Satanic direction he felt to be cliched and not really his own, to more intelligent waters. Jo certainly wouldn't oppose that. In any case the song was called "Necrothrashing Desecrator," and it would always be played at breakneck speed.

But it was unfortunate that after that high point, things would start heading downhill almost immediately after the real hard work of crafting and honing the rest of the Cyberpriest material started.

The problem, Jo thought, was that René's leadership took the form of extreme inflexibility and lack of willingness to take any input. Mick wouldn't give much input in any case, and would actually have problems with the more complex parts, which spelled trouble in itself.

Jo thought that she might have invented what she called "Jo's law," which went like this: the moment the bassist / vocalist starts dictating you, an accomplished guitarist, solos note-by-note, run and don't look back!

Of course she didn't want to give up that easily, since giving up now would mean losing both the band and René as a partner at the same time.

But there was a limit how far she could compromise. At times René's ideas were unworkable and musically wrong. He needed to be set straight. But that couldn't be done without creating arguments of terrible intensity. Thankfully it was never at the risk of extending to the physical, but even just verbally it took its toll on Jo. She found herself crying to sleep often.

The period could be rather perfectly summed up with René holding her after an argument, always rather gently, with sincere apology in his eyes. He'd always say something like "Jo. I don't want to fight you one second longer. I want both us and the band to succeed."

Jo would respond with a weary "Then don't."

One time it went somewhat further. René had been drinking at this point, so he began.

"I think your problem is that you think you're too good for this band," he said to her point-blank.

Jo felt stunned and insulted. She shouted almost at the top of her lungs.

"No! I've never felt like that! But I'm not going to take obvious errors in the songs, things that could be done so much better! If we want to take on the world, someone else will notice too! Like repeating some stupid riff before the solo four or eight times. I don't care if it's the best riff ever, if you think it's the God's gift to the world, if just two times would be enough!"

René was stunned into silence in turn, and Jo continued.

"And I'm tired that you always say you don't want to fight and the next day you return precisely to the same. And the songs don't even progress. I've seriously exhausted myself and don't think it's worth it any more."

René spoke quietly now. "So are you saying -"

"Yes. I'm saying that I'm leaving the band."

After this Jo was too exhausted to continue the argument any further, so she turned around and headed out of René's apartment. The walk to her own place felt like the longest ever, but at last she was there and just shut the lights and threw herself on the bed with clothes on. It did not help that it would be Monday in a few hours.

...

The next day René called her after work.

"Listen. I've been thinking. Seriously. Rather leave me, than the band."

"No. I'd want it the other way around."

Jo was completely honest with this. All the arguments had to do with Cyberpriest's material and direction. Though it was also true that both of them did live for music only. Without it, there likely wasn't going to be much else binding them.

"But the band needs you."

"It only needs you. You're the captain. You'll always find a new crew."

"No. I just gave Mick the boot. You had noticed it too. He just couldn't play the most demanding parts. There's this guy, Erik, who's much better."

"And you'll find a new guitarist too, who'll be much better."

"Than you? No, I won't."

That somehow made Jo stop in her tracks; she had been arguing René's points almost like on cruise control. But right now she wouldn't have wanted to hear either that the world - the band's world - supposedly hinged on her. She forced her voice lower and harsher.

"But if the shit that has been going on, goes on, I don't want any part of it any more. If I've already been working my ass off the whole day, I want something that gives me energy. Not something that drains the little I have left."

"Thrash of the highest degree can never be a picnic. If that's what you want, you have to find another kind of band."

"I know, but you've got to start taking input. Otherwise it won't be thrash of the highest degree, but shit. Sorry, it's harsh, but I think I'm through trying to put it more nicely."

There was a silence that Jo thought to extend almost to a full minute.

"You're right," René said finally.

...

On the evening of the day after they met in the Hades Club again, both with their bottles of beer. But sitting at a table now, facing each other.

"I believe I need to have that Damocles sword over my head," René said. "That if I go out of line too bad, you're out. But ... if you're also with me, then I'm afraid I'll take your membership for granted. Sorry. That's the way my mind is wired. I don't think I'm able to change that."

Jo needed time to digest this. But René was not even finished.

"I can't know exactly what it does to you, but me, this music consumes whole. Nothing will change the fact that it's exhausting. It has to be. Otherwise we'd be half-assing it, which you didn't want either."

He still went on.

"But imagine this, rather than having no break from me, you go home and are able to say to someone else not in the band at all, 'Wow, that René was almost an intolerable asshole today, but we managed to get that song pieced together and it's going to kick fucking ass' and that someone would hold you and make sure your battery would be charged for the next round of war, wouldn't that be the best thing ever?"

Now, even more, Jo needed time to digest it.

"So you're ... leaving me?" she asked.

"No. But I'm warning you that if you stay with me, it's possible nothing ever changes."

Jo thought of standing up without finishing the beer, and just taking a hike again.

But – that would mean she'd indeed lose both. If she couldn't stand René now, when he was suggesting this, then she wouldn't be able to stand him in the rehearsals. And on stage. Then she would need to start from zero again. What were the odds that she'd find another band with this much promise?

So she thought back to René's imagined scenario. He had described the very best-case one. But how about this: shit job, shit rehearsals, shit boyfriend who understood nothing of why she had to spend hours in a concrete bunker each week?

Fuck.

Still, what he had proposed felt right now like the only way forward.

Jo observed her voice to be higher and almost irrationally playful now. "OK. I'll leave you. Problem solved. Band saved. We're good?"

René let out a laugh in response, and Jo thought that he was taking the situation far much better than she was. But if she thought seriously, Cyberpriest had extreme potential. It should not be thrown down the drain just because of her heartache.


	18. Chapter 18

_AN: Sorry ... again a bit borrowed from "Loaded" - the situation described is just too good to leave out!_

...

Erik thought that on the scale of odd band situations to arrive in, it ranked moderately high. Maybe six or seven out of ten.

René he of course knew already. To know he had just kicked the previous drummer out, could make one slightly wary. But Erik thought back to his philosophy, forging your own path as the Over-Man.

If René would give him the boot quickly in turn without him getting to prove his worth properly, it would not be a great loss, as it'd just prove René to be an idiot. And there would be other opportunities. Of course ... the songs Erik had heard were not something you'd hear every day. So he wanted his role to last if at all possible. The material was also a true test for his skills, so that he needed to stay at the top of his game constantly.

Then, there was the guitarist. Jo. Two would have been better to keep the sound thicker during solos. If René would use distortion on the bass, that would help. In any case, from the first rehearsal already Erik knew Jo had serious talent. Again not something you'd see every day.

But she certainly was down due to some reason, preferring to leave as soon as practice had ended.

Erik did not want to inquire overtly. Likely, relationship trouble.

At one point he had a rather stupid idea having to do with a plush cube with a heart on each side. In the end he was glad he abandoned it. Jo could have misunderstood his intentions completely.

...

One day, as Erik was cleaning up the snapped drumsticks and other debris from around the drumkit, Jo actually remained longer, so that there were just the two of them.

Erik thought that she no longer seemed to be that down on herself.

But before he could say anything, Jo spoke up first.

"I just realized ... I no longer have a crazy bald one-percenter for a drummer, but a hairy mountain goat instead. Of which I know nothing."

"Mick was the previous, right? Well, I ride a bike too. Though not in a club."

"Anything else I should know about?"

Erik thought he would give the no-punches-pulled version.

"Well, I also shoot guns. Read Nietzsche. Have a cabin where I go when I believe the world is too much shit. And I believe in the right of everyone to either be able to fend for themselves, or die when trying to do that badly or not trying at all."

"Interesting. I just play guitar. And drive a forklift. And that's about it."

It sounded self-deprecating. Erik thought that he should have had the plush cube after all and given it to her now. And maybe not talk about his admittedly harsh survival ideology right away.

But as Jo continued, Erik thought he was now hearing something she would not tell to just anyone.

"I think I once believed in something like you do ... that the world was a conspiracy hellhole and I needed to be prepared."

This was getting interesting. But Erik had his answer ready.

"It is. Or maybe it isn't. But losing a little time is better than being dead. Listen, I'm not going to try to convince you. But if you want to come to the cabin to shoot guns, or to drink absinthe, you're welcome any time."

Jo began to smile a little.

"René might get the wrong idea."

"He's quite the hard-ass, right? The Kommandant."

"That's good. Let's call him that from this point on."

...

Some months later, the songs were much more finished. And Jo certainly had upgraded gear now. A red ESP guitar which was not exactly cheap, but she and René had split the cost.

"Just to make it clear, this is not me begging you back," René had said. "But you deserve to play with a proper guitar."

It had still hurt a bit to hear that, but it was good to know exactly where they were standing.

Jo had built a sort of ideology for herself now. It was not as extreme as Erik's, but rather the knowledge that there were things she knew she could trust, and things outside her control, which she couldn't. Her guitar belonged to the first. People in general, to the latter. It was a bit cynical, but it helped.

She thought back to the shows she had watched far too young. It was the fear and danger and conspiracy that had drawn her in, but there was also the component of there being some person the other could absolutely trust. Or well, not if they had been brainwashed. Like Nikita to Michael. Or Mulder to Scully. It went a bit to fantasy territory, but she thought she'd like to find someone like that some day.

She was not sure if it was exactly healthy, but she kind of liked the idea of that other being a bit ... lost ... without her. René was certainly not like that at all. If Jo thought seriously, it was clear he only needed her as a guitarist. Maybe he thought the band would be lost without her, but that was different. What she meant, was that in turn ... she could then allow herself to be a bit lost without that other.

There was this stupid-as-hell fantasy she surely was not going to tell to anyone ever. But it was soon after picking up the guitar and changing strings for the first time. She had managed to prick her fingertip with a string, drawing blood. And had it been an enchanted string, then she would have fallen asleep, and woken up to the kiss of some cute guy, who also played guitar.

Jo sometimes returned to a memory many years back.

The Slayer concert in the summer after finishing school. She thought Jeff Hanneman had looked her in the eyes and nodded in approval upon seeing her air-guitaring the breakdown riff of "Angel of Death" exactly right.

But it was not only about that.

She remembered looking to her left, and in the front row there was someone looking at her playing too. It might have been her mind playing tricks, something construed afterwards, but Jo thought he had looked cute and a bit lost. She didn't think she would recognize him though, even if he walked right by. The world really had to be full of guys who'd fit that vague description.


	19. Chapter 19

Ian did not find exactly funny that it had taken him so many years, a lot of it aimless drifting, to get to the source of true power. Or less pretentiously, the Bay Area.

He thought that here, at last, he would be tested on the mastery of his own three commandments.

Then he would either stand or fall. But at least he would have tried. He was aware that this was a rather simplistic approach to life, and was almost a hundred percent sure he wouldn't hold onto that forever, but for now it was still enough. He had to see what waited at the end of this particular road.

He had kept playing guitar. He certainly had improved. But now he was flat-out broke.

Using his ability of quick learning, and some cheating, he had landed himself a job interview. If he'd fail this opportunity, he would literally be out on the streets.

It would involve IT support. He had a cheap-ass computer now, on which he had practiced. A hell of a lot of memorizing, and some creative reading on the internet, including a certain newsgroup for sysadmins in recovery. Getting into the right mindset, which was somewhat cynical. No, extremely so.

Down, not across.

That meant the proper sysadmin way of slitting one's wrists.

...

Ian climbed the steps to the shiny, slightly oppressive corporate building, and entered a brightly lit lobby. He walked to the reception desk. In the morning, he had not paid any especial attention to his appearance, so his already long hair was somewhat unkempt, and he just wore a denim jacket.

"I'm Ian Smith. I have an interview with Gwen ... I don't remember her last name."

"That's good enough," the receptionist said. "Let me check."

But before she could finish doing so, the elevator on the wall to Ian's left pinged, and a woman possibly five-to-ten years older than him strode out. She could only be described as imposing, being short but wide in all other directions, long bright red-dyed hair trailing behind her and slowly coming to rest as she stopped.

"Ian Smith?" she asked. "You're interviewing for the PFY position?"

Ian thought this might actually end up well. She used the exact terminology he had been preparing for. PFY meant pimple-faced youth, a junior sysadmin.

He still needed to verify one more thing before answering the question directly.

"You're the BOFH?"

"Yes. Now, follow me."

...

The two entered a small office room, and Gwen motioned Ian to sit on a vacant swivel chair.

Ian's heart sank a bit when he understood the interview would not be conducted by Gwen alone. Rather, there was a balding, older man present, Gorman. He was the supervisor of the IT department, and curiously he shared Ian's last name. The firm was doing business analysis and consulting for other companies and there was a complex internal network with many servers, which Gwen administered, and in which Ian was expected to help.

His hopes went up again when Ian understood Gorman would stay silent for the most part.

"I'm not a fan of talking too much, so much of this will be a practical test, to see you can handle the basics," Gwen said. "Configure that workstation in front of you for our LAN and print / file servers, according to that sheet."

The sheet of paper listed the basics. Default gateway, subnet mask, DNS configuration, the IP addresses of the servers, and the accounts and passwords to use. Didn't sound too bad. Unless there was some hidden catch.

There actually was, Ian thought, and smiled to himself.

"It's not plugged in to the network. Where do I plug it in?"

"Very good," Gwen said. She handed him an RJ-45 cable, which he went to connect to the wall box. The link and data lights on the workstation's rear end came on promisingly.

...

One hour later, which had been a bit hair-raising at times, Ian was in. On a trial period, but still, in!

He and Gwen shook hands, then he and Gorman. The latter event was significantly less pleasant.

"You start tomorrow," Gwen said. "But I could show you the server room already."

Ian had no reason to protest, and they climbed stairs to the third floor. Ian thought he almost felt out of breath, while Gwen had no such trouble. She had to open several heavy doors before they arrived in her air-conditioned dominion, which appeared at first as a chaotic jumble of blinking lights, servers, and network patch cables. The combined hum of all the equipment was so loud that Gwen had to raise her voice.

"This is the BOFH-cave."

Ian knew it had to be a good starting point.


	20. Chapter 20

Visual confirmed, the operative Reaper thought to himself from the corner of the Black Shark bar. It had to be trainee Necro, or Ian. No doubt. He had not even altered his appearance much, which pointed to a very underdeveloped survival instinct. The Agents had possibly made him forget too much.

The assignment would now go into the second stage, to befriend him and see if he would be contacted by them.

It was distasteful, he knew. Because his dissociated mind still remembered the training and their genuine friendship as clear as day.

He also still didn't value his masters highly, because he was painfully aware of how they didn't value him either. After all these years, he was still only like a test subject to them. A lab rat, who might be eliminated the moment he was no longer useful. But he had gained a degree of freedom, and was certainly paid well.

It was the opportunity to strike at the Agents that had made him want to do this.

Of course, it was not Ian's fault that what Reaper had intended as lighthearted banter had actually become a blueprint for his own actions, in the sorrowful aftermath of a perfectly routine mission. Exchanging information with an operative within a Purexo lab, encoded as food hygiene testing results.

He had been the driver. The mission had turned out to be a trap and ambush by the Agents. And now ... he certainly did not want to dwell more on the memory, and understood well why there were certain rules. He had learned the hard way.

Now there was also the matter of re-implanting the tracking device.

After only a superficial observation, the method was already clear to him. Ian certainly liked his liquor. Only two words were needed to describe how Reaper was going to do it.

Tequila. Worm.


	21. Epilogue

_AN: Does not happen chronologically, but at some unspecified time after trainee Necro's escape._

 _..._

The as-nondescript-as-possible gray Ford Focus had stopped to the roadside. But this time it wasn't due to an electric failure. Rather, just due to the occupants wanting to stop to look at the stars.

For safety, they used fake identities now.

"Do you believe in second chances?" the woman asked from the passenger seat.

"Not in the sense that he'd ever come back to us," the man on the driver seat replied. "But for us, yes."

"Same for me. But without those Agents taking contact just then -"

"We'd certainly have been dead."

There was silence. Then the woman resumed.

"I think ... for a long time I believed that in reality, only villains and incompetent officials exist. And heroes belong only to fiction. But after that ... I think heroes exist too."

"Right, and even in the most extreme sense, not how everyone can be one. Somehow I think ... Ian's going to be one of them now. He has seen the enemy too close to not want to destroy them. For the whole time the fantasy was actually right, but it was never us."

The man paused, then resumed with a more reserved voice.

"It's not a fate I'd want for him, if I had any choice in the matter. It's actually terrible to think about. But it's out of our hands now."

"It also needs two, right? He'd need this ... heroine."

"Well, yeah. And that would not be a pleasant fate either. She'd need to be out of her mind."

"Maybe there'd be like ... some moments that make it worth it. I don't know. Like, they could take a car trip too, and get stranded in the middle of nowhere just like us."

The man's voice turned sarcastic.

"Yeah, or like you did, braking to a halt just because you heard -"


End file.
